I'm looking at you, Miss
by Tara1189
Summary: There was surety in his solid features, but also something else… something almost… craving.


A/N: I've always loved this scene; it's such an intensely powerful moment. For the first time, Hawkeye is openly acknowledging his attraction and Cora's surrendering her social restraints. There's such emotion packed into what amounts to about sixty seconds of screen time, so I've attempted to expand this charged interaction. Unfortunately, I don't own Last of the Mohicans (though I wish I did).

**I'm looking at you, Miss**

Nathaniel Poe wiped a wearied hand across his brow, leaving a dirt-stained smear in its wake. His tall figure moved through the dim passage with natural ease, heading towards the small room that had been set up as an infirmary; moccasined feet making no sound against the wooden floor. A sharp metallic tang underlined the heavy aromas of earth and wood smoke. Stifling heat pressed around him, providing little relief from the muggy atmosphere of cannon fire he had just had to endure outside. Little as he liked to admit it, the surroundings were getting to him. He yearned for freedom and action; being cooped up, near helpless, in a stockade that was already doomed to defeat was not what he had counted on. Uncas, of course, endured the situation with the stolidity and patience that characterised his nature. Hawkeye often wished for a measure of the quiet gravity that came to his brother so easily. He knew he was too impulsive and passionate, as elemental as the rugged terrain on which they had managed to carve out a life for themselves. It was with silent and earnest longing that he felt a wish to escape and return there. Nothing to do with cowardice; but everything to do with dragging himself away from the internal musings that, if allowed to continue, would be more incendiary than the cannons that shrieked outside on an hourly basis.

Cora Munro. What was it about the woman that had turned his body bowstring taut within the space of a few days? On the outset, they had nothing in common: this quiet, genteel English woman and a rough edged, uncultured scout. Yet when he had spoken to her that night in the glade he had glimpsed passion. That she was capable of deeper feeling he knew from the almost unnaturally fierce intensity with which she loved her sister. Beneath the refined introverted exterior was a rare spirit being suppressed by a shallow society that sought to confine and condition. In her eyes he had seen the urgent desire to escape. The same quest for personal freedom that led him to wander rootless and unbound was equally evident in her, yet unrealised. He had discovered the passions that so moved him equally stirred her blood. Was this what inexplicably drew him to her?

If she but knew the flames that burned within him…

Hawkeye was no fool. He had always followed his natural instincts, but now at last British culture had intruded on his personal desires. He was still incensed by Munro's casual dismissal of Webb's agreement and furthermore sensed the Colonel's, if not contempt, then at least scornful disregard. Moreover, Miss Munro was as good as engaged to Major Heyward but just the thought caused him to clench his fists painfully. He should not care so much. He knew all this and yet… yet still his feet were leading him instinctively to the surgery where he knew he would find her. He had always lived his life with a firm surety, understanding the deep rooted impulses that moved him to emotion. If he was angry, he shouted. If grieved, he wept.

Until now, he had never loved.

"Sir? Can I help?"

The scout glanced sidelong at the man who had addressed him before his gaze was drawn through the open door where it alighted on the object of his thoughts. His pulse quickened. Her back was to him, so he was granted the rare opportunity of watching her unnoticed. She looked very different to the woman he had first encountered on the George road. In the warm light he could see her skirts were stained; the loose blouse she wore had the sleeves rolled back several times, leaving her arms bare to ensure freedom of movement. Dark hair was pinned carelessly behind her head; a few loose tendrils caressed her neckline. She was bent over Uncas, sewing up a wound he recalled his brother receiving from a piece of flying shrapnel.

"She know what she's doin'?" he asked Phelps in a low voice, staring as the muted light turned the white skin of her arms to soft gold.

Phelps looked up, following the direction of Hawkeye's earnest look. He was slightly indignant. Of the two Munro sisters, he had always preferred Cora. "First assisted me in Austria when she was fourteen. I would say she does…"

He registered this information with some surprise. It was the second time he had misjudged her. He trusted he would not do so again. Clearly this was not her first experience of war despite the unfamiliarity of the land she found herself in. No wonder she was possessed of a self control and resourcefulness quite beyond her years. Nature had shaped him to be a survivor: in her, he recognised a part of himself.

"She does not shy away from much…"

"What's that?"

Hawkeye realised he had spoken aloud. "Nothin'," he muttered.

Cora worked at the Indian's wound with a quiet concentration that utterly absorbed her attention. She had learned long ago not be appalled at the sight of injuries far worse than this. Her hands were busy, her mind busier. It was a relief to occupy herself so completely, the menial tasks served as a welcome distraction from the many worries and anxieties that had fallen on her shoulders over the last few days. The addition of five years had given her a greater experience of warfare than that of her sister. She pressed a damp cloth against her forehead with a sigh, recalling with sharp clarity the haunted fear that constantly strained through Alice's eyes these days. Her gentle, sweet tempered sister was not made to cope with such situations; she did not deserve this. Cora's headstrong nature and wilful independence had been a cause for chagrin in her girlhood; yet these qualities, suppressed under a deferent ladylike demeanour, had risen once more and became the very elements that gave her strength.

Once again, she picked up the needle and thread, resuming her work. Uncas had not even flinched, despite the pain he must have been enduring. She had tried to make the treatment as bearable as possible but not one word of complaint had passed the man's lips. In the few days of their acquaintance she had developed a comfortable amicability towards him, utterly at variance to Duncan's standoffish and politely concealed disdain. She felt oddly at ease in his presence which perplexed her, as the scout, Mr Poe, always sent her into a flurry of emotion that disturbed her normal composed gravity. Unrefined he might be, yet he carried himself with an effortless natural grace which she had not before encountered in anyone. It both attracted and disconcerted her. The man certainly unsettled her more than she liked. Something about the way his dark eyes seemed to look into her so directly, lacking the polite discretion she was normally used to receiving… Her hand trembled slightly and she heard Uncas draw a sharp intake of breath. It brought her back to reality. Murmuring an apology, she continued with her work, feeling slightly ashamed of herself. Hawkeye was kind enough. She could not hold him to blame for the fact that her heart beat faster when he was in the room…

"Miss Cora?" Mr Phelps's voice broke through her concentration, and she looked up at him with inquiring politeness. "Gentleman looking for you."

Cora turned pale. Hawkeye entered the makeshift surgery; his angular features were softened by a slight smile. The room trembled slightly as the resounding impact of a cannon shuddered through the stockade. The scout had had enough experience of battle to recognise the stale smell of sickness and death that pervaded the confined space. That Cora could work in such conditions for hours at a time without complaint was a credit to her powers of endurance. Why that should arouse such powerful feelings in him he chose not to consider.

"Miss Munro," he greeted her quietly. His voice was rough edged, yet strangely gentle.

She returned a greeting in a low voice, trying to still the nervous fluttering in her stomach. Turning back to Uncas, she was very aware of the scout as he moved behind her towards the shelf and strongly resisted the urge to look around.

Hawkeye searched through the supplies carelessly, almost forgetting what he had come to look for. Bandages, ointment, a bowl of water that had been set aside, curls of steam rising from its depths; all these passed his generally observant eyes unnoticed. Other thoughts preoccupied him. He could still feel the blood beating in his ears. The sight of her so animated and intent had stirred him with a strange and unfamiliar emotion. A few stray curls framed and softened her face and he had been hard put not to surrender to his impulse of leaning forward and brushing them gently behind her ears. He clenched his jaw. He should not be having these libidinous thoughts about a woman he could not have. His hardened and calloused hand came into contact with what he was searching for, and he held up the cloth addressing her:

"May I?"

She nodded quickly and focused her attention on Uncas once more. The stolid Mohican appeared not to notice the underlying tension in the room, if he did; he gave no indication of it.

The scout came and stood beside her, using the sharp blade of his knife to cut the material into thin strips. For a while, the only sound in the room was the rending of fabric that broke through the strained silence. Cora could not prevent her eyes drifting towards him as she unravelled a length of dressing with which to cover her patient's wound; Hawkeye seemed to sense her gaze and returned it with a look so calm and knowing it caused her falter. She turned away hastily, saying to Uncas with a voice that fought to remain steady: "It will seep and then it's going to draw."

"Thank you, Miss," he replied evenly. His shirt was rolled up, leaving his tanned midriff exposed as the woman bound the injured area with practised, agile hands. Hawkeye watched her beneath lowered lids, knowing he would not be able to remain so still were her hands on _his_ torso.

"When you're 'bout done holdin' hands with Miss Munro…" he kept his voice deliberately light and careless. Cora glanced away quickly, unable to hold back a slight smile. It was suppressed in an instant but not before the astute scout had noticed. He had succeeded in causing a genuine smile that momentarily broke down the barriers of studied guardedness… He hurriedly sheathed his knife, adding, "we've got some work to do."

A polite thanks and Uncas obligingly took his leave. Cora almost wished he had stayed. The silence in the small room seemed to intensify with his absence. The fire flickered unsteadily as a cool draft came in through the doorway, a dancing blend of light and shadow played across the walls. Cora kept herself busied; deliberately refusing to look up until she was sure Mr Poe had left also. Hawkeye however, had made a reluctant movement towards the open door when a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks. Seeing they were left alone, he remained where he was. This tension had gone beyond the point of endurance. Why deny something so fundamental and natural?

Firelight brought heat to that pale complexion that had been so assiduously protected with veils and bonnets against the harsh extremes of climate. His eyes tenderly traced the lines of those features that had become branded into his memory, following the sharp cheekbones to the resolute, slightly squared jaw line and the narrow pointed chin. There was a strangely intense beauty to her that went far beyond the physical. It was inner strength, an ardent spirit that brought a captivating light to those fine dark eyes he wished to see locked on his, not downcast as they were now. The confining space of the small room had always been warm, but now he was suddenly very aware of the heat that flushed through him.

Cora found him watching her. The warmth of light slanting in through the open door tinged the ends of his waves of black hair to fiery copper. Much of his face was in shadow, but there was warm glow in his weathered features that she attributed to the heat rather than any other cause. She had never before really looked at him, but now was struck by the raw energy that spoke through every word and gesture. She wondered how old he was. There were no streaks of grey in the masses of dark hair, his nose was powerfully built with wide flared nostrils; but she could discern fine lines creasing around his eyes and deep set at the edges of his mobile mouth, and even the dim light could not soften the roughness of his skin. It was a face that had seen life, and struggled, and endured. He was not handsome, but there was such a force and vigour to him that it hardly mattered. Dark eyes were regarding her with interest; the strange fire burning within them was not reflected. So she would not have to face the heat of that gaze she shifted her eyes downwards once more, until they came to rest on his shirt that was open at his chest, a few hairs visible where the material parted. She released a shaky breath. When had the atmosphere become so stifling?

At last, and with an effort, she found her voice.

"What are you looking at, Sir?"

She neither expected nor anticipated the answer she received.

"I'm looking at you, Miss," Hawkeye said steadily.

Cora's eyes fluttered momentarily, startled at the decisive boldness of the reply. There was no insolence intended, only frankness. Cheeks burning, she looked down – though learned habit, rather than natural modesty led her to do so – continuing with her work. As the bandage was folded with an unsteady hand she tried to rationalise her confused thoughts. She was surprised to discover she did not mind at all, in fact, admired his honesty and candour. In light of this, her restrained response seemed illogical and foolish. What would he think of her? Would there be a return of that ironically amused gleam she had seen so often in his expressive eyes?

The scout began to think he had offended her with his audacity. Perhaps he had gone too far. He was half inclined to leave when she suddenly looked up straight into his eyes, meeting his directness with her own. Something passed between them, an acknowledgment of mutual attraction, with neither restraint nor misgiving. In her solemn and intent gaze he found both emotion and surrender. Always following the truth of everything, he knew there was nothing shameful in his feelings though others might think so. But if this was wrong, then what the hell in this overturned world was _right_? Custom and convention had no place in this chaotic orbit they had all been thrown into: here, there was only emotion.

Cora encountered an expression she had never before seen, his dark irises seeming to hold endless depth. A curious mixture of bewildered happiness and nervous exhilaration set her heart pounding in her chest and a wild thrill trembling through every nerve. In that second she came to realise with a sudden flash of blinding insight what it was that cast Nathaniel in a different mould to all other men. He treated her as an equal. With this newly attained knowledge she smiled softly, amazed at the calm sense of inevitability that descended over her. Some things just were and had to be. She wanted to hold onto this moment forever, to grasp _now_ with both hands and never let it go. So she would not have to return to the world of guilt and disturbance and society that awaited. Why should she return when everything she wanted was right here, in this room with this man…?

Hawkeye smiled back at her kindly, the creases at the corners of his firm mouth deepening. His stance had relaxed somewhat; he knew he had broken through her imposed guardedness and the awkwardness that had been hovering between them unspoken ever since the night in the glade. He would never tell her this but he had wanted to kiss her ever since that fleeting moment they had shared beneath the stars. If he did not leave now, he knew he would. His entire body tensed at the thought. The scout did not realise that the raw hunger betrayed itself in his eyes.

Her breathing had suddenly become very shallow. There was a surety in his solid features, but also something else… something almost… craving. Her experience with men was minimal, but there was no mistaking the passion that smouldered in every lineament. That one fleeting expression changed everything. She knew that their relationship had been irrevocably altered. Before she could consider why or how, he inclined his dark head in silent farewell then was gone without a sound.

Cora leaned forward, a longing sigh escaping her slightly parted lips. Certainly, she had revealed too much to him in that moment. He had revealed too much to her. She waited for the inevitable feelings of disgrace and regret to surface, but none came. And why should they? She had left behind everything she ever knew but somehow had found herself. Part of her ached for him to return even as a part wished him far away.

But he did not come back.


End file.
